I was a couple months shy of my eleventh birthday on the day that Islamic terrorists hijacked commercial jets and waged war on American life. Growing up in Virginia Beach, a stone’s throw from Naval Air Station Oceana, I was used to planes — they were loud, powerful, and instruments of protection. And then, like so many other parts of my childhood reality that day, that changed.

Twenty-five years later, I am now somehow a couple of months shy of my 36th birthday with an eleven-year-old of my own and two younger kids.

I found myself wrestling with a question: How much of this do I share?

Conservatives are pretty big on history. We might quibble over whether it repeats itself or rhymes — but we agree that history matters. And thus, we teach it. Normally, I jump in with both feet.

I did so over the summer as we celebrated America’s 250th. Our three elementary-age kids not only sat through but claimed to enjoy an entire documentary on the Revolution that a friend’s film studio premiered with Hillsdale University.

My lifelong enthusiasm for George Washington, Patrick Henry, Lafayette, and........

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