Wildlydj: The Life of DJ Lieberman

Why individual collectivism succeeds where identity politics fails

I’ve been fortunate in ways I don’t take lightly.

I’ve worked in Congress. I’ve sat in rooms with state representatives and state senators. I’ve worked alongside U.S. congressional delegations, both House and Senate, across party lines. I’ve seen how policy is shaped when people disagree but still understand the weight of what they’re responsible for.

And I’ve never felt as discouraged about our country as I do right now.

When I was younger, I leaned more toward the left, but I knew I was an independent. Not because I was undecided, but because the way I thought and what I believed never fully fit the definition of the Democratic Party. Over time, that independence didn’t cost me much, but it did change how clearly I could see.

Independence strips away the illusion that one side holds a monopoly on truth.

Some people will argue with me on this, but the political spectrum isn’t a straight line, it’s a horseshoe. The extremes bend so far toward each other that they end up resembling the same thing: rigid thinking, moral absolutism, and a refusal to acknowledge complexity. Different labels. Different language. Same outcome.

I remember one moment from my time in Washington that still sticks with me.

You know how newer cars will alert you if you’ve left a child in the backseat? Or prompt you to double-check before you walk away? I was part of the team that wrote legislation to make that technology a requirement, to turn it from a feature into a safeguard.

That meant sitting down with members and staffers from both sides of the aisle and making the case. Not with slogans. Not with moral grandstanding. But with real conversations about safety, responsibility, feasibility, and lives that could be saved.

And here’s the part that feels almost unrecognizable now.

After work, we’d go to the same bars. We’d laugh. We’d talk about life. We’d enjoy each other’s company. The same people who challenged the bill during the day would buy you a drink at night.

This was during the first Trump administration, and despite everything people assume, things were different. In D.C., when the workday ended, most people left identity politics at the door.

Disagreement didn’t cancel humanity.

That doesn’t mean the stakes weren’t real. They were.
It means we still understood that disagreement wasn’t an identity, it was a position. One you could argue without turning the person across from you into an enemy.

Somewhere along the way, we lost that.

From my work with Alaska Native communities, I’ve come to believe in what I think of as individual collectivism, and it’s one of the clearest reasons I think identity politics ultimately fails people.

Individual collectivism starts with a simple truth: the individual matters. Your dignity, agency, and responsibility aren’t erased for the sake of a group. At the same time, no one exists in isolation. Every choice is understood in relation to family, community, elders, and future generations.

Identity politics flips that order.

Instead of asking how does this person live responsibly within their community? it asks which group do they belong to first? People become representatives of labels rather than whole, complex human beings. Individual behavior is excused or condemned based on identity, not actions. Responsibility becomes selective. Empathy becomes conditional.

In Alaska Native communities, you’re not reduced to a category, you’re known. You’re accountable to people who will still see you tomorrow. Rights come with obligations. Support comes with expectation. Care is mutual, not transactional.

Identity politics promises protection, but often delivers isolation.

It tells people who they are supposed to be angry at, what they’re allowed to say, and which parts of themselves must be muted to remain “in good standing” with the group. It discourages self-critique and punishes nuance; two things every healthy community depends on.

Individual collectivism holds a harder line.

It refuses to erase the person for the group or the group for the person. It understands that belonging requires responsibility, and freedom without relationship eventually becomes loneliness. Community without accountability becomes hollow.

That balance, imperfect, human, relational, is what I’ve seen work.

And it’s exactly what our national politics seems to be unlearning.

I have friends on the left. I have friends on the right.
And I fall somewhere in the middle, not because I lack conviction, but because I refuse to reduce complex human problems into clean ideological boxes.

For most of my life, that middle ground felt like a bridge.
I could sit with people I disagreed with. I could ask hard questions. I could listen, actually listen, and still be listened to in return. Respect didn’t require agreement. Curiosity didn’t require surrender.

That space feels like it’s disappearing.

Now, conversations feel like tests.
Say the wrong phrase and you’re branded.
Question the right narrative and you’re disloyal.
Refuse to pick a side loudly enough and you’re accused of enabling the other.

I’m tired.

I’m tired of the division.
Tired of the hate disguised as virtue.
Tired of watching empathy become conditional.

What worries me most isn’t polarization itself, nations survive that.
It’s the loss of shared language. The erosion of good faith. The growing inability to sit in discomfort long enough to learn something real.

We cannot build a future if every conversation begins with a verdict.

I still believe this country is capable of better, not because we agree, but because we once knew how to disagree without dehumanizing. Because we once understood that democracy requires patience, humility, and the courage to stay at the table when walking away would be easier.

But right now, I’m grieving that loss.

Not quietly.
Not dramatically.
Just honestly.

And maybe that grief, shared instead of shouted, is where something worth saving still begins.