My father, Andrew Jackson, Sr., was born in Ireland, in County Antrim, Ulster, where the Scots-Irish came from. He was one of many who left the old world behind, looking for something better in America. He crossed the ocean, settled in the Carolinas, and tried to carve out a living like so many others.
My mother, Elizabeth Hutchinson Jackson, was born in Ireland, just like my father. She was a woman of iron will and unshakable faith—the kind of mother who raised her sons to be strong, not soft. When my father died before I was even born, it was her who kept our family together, who taught me what it meant to fight, to endure, and to stand tall no matter what came our way. Boyhood? I didn't have one, not the kind folks think of today. I was born into a world that didn't have time for childhood.
My father died before I was born, leaving my mother to raise three sons alone in the Carolina backwoods. We had no wealth, no security, just the land, our hands, and the will to survive. The Carolina frontier was no place for the weak. the British, the Indians, the lawless. All of them could kill you if you weren't quick, if you weren't strong.
I learned early that a man has to fight for what's his, because no one is going to give it to him. I saw men shot, homes burned, fields left in ashes. The war came, and with it, the end of whatever childhood I had left.
I was barely thirteen when I joined the Revolution as a messenger. The British caught me soon enough, held me prisoner, starved me, beat me. An officer ordered me to clean his boots, and when I refused, he struck me with his sword. I caught the blade on my hand, but the scar stayed with me. So did the lesson never bow to a tyrant.
The war took everything from me, my two brothers, my mother—fever took her as she nursed wounded prisoners. By fifteen, I was alone. No father, no mother, no brothers. Just me and whatever future I could carve out with my own hands. I had no inheritance, no land, no education to speak of. Only my name, and my will. And that was enough.
Who were the British? They were tyrants, thieves, and butchers, an empire that thought it could own the world, that believed men like me, men like us, had no right to govern ourselves. They didn't just tax us without representation. They tried to crush us under their boots. And when we stood up and fought back, they burned our homes, hanged our men, and left our people to starve. But for me, it was never just about war. It was personal. The British took my childhood, my family, my blood. They dragged me and my brother to prison, starved us, beat us, let us rot in filth. A redcoat officer slashed me with his sword when I refused to lick his damn boots—the mark of which I bear to this hour. My brother didn't survive that prison. The British killed him. And when my mother went to help the wounded, she never came back. Fever took her before I ever had the chance to say goodbye.
So you ask why the British were such a problem? Because they never saw us as equals. Because they thought they could rule us like dogs. Because they thought they could kill our sons, our mothers, our fathers, and we would just kneel. But they learned at New Orleans that we kneel to no king, to no empire, and if they ever dared to try again—I would have met them with the same fire that sent them running last time. The British weren't just a problem. They were the enemy of freedom, the enemy of everything I ever fought for, and I made damn sure they never forgot my name.
I was in my late twenties when I first met Rachel. She was the daughter of a prominent family in Tennessee, a strong, independent woman, just the kind of woman I respected. She wasn't looking for a man to run her life, and that's what made her different.
We met through mutual acquaintances, and it didn't take long for me to see she was the one. I was a young man, determined to make something of myself. A lawyer, a landowner, a man of action. Rachel saw that in me, and I saw in her a woman who wasn't afraid to stand beside a man who had nothing but fire in his belly and grit in his heart. But we didn't marry right away. There were complications—her first marriage, the legal troubles. But Rachel and I both knew what we had. It didn't matter what people said or how they tried to tear us apart. I was a man who had fought for everything in my life, and Rachel was the one thing I wasn't about to lose. A man is nothing without his honor. In my time, if a man slandered you, insulted your name, or attacked your family, you didn't settle it with letters and speeches. You settled it like men. You gave the scoundrel a chance to back down, and if he refused, you met him on the field of honor. That was the way of things, and I make no apologies for it.
Dueling wasn't about murder, it was about justice. If a man had the gall to insult another, he'd better be willing to stand by his words at the barrel of a pistol. If he wasn't, he had no right to speak in the first place. The law might say dueling is illegal, but the law can't restore a man's good name once it's been dragged through the mud. Only a man himself can do that.
Charles Dickinson wasn't just some fool with a loud mouth. He slandered my wife. He spread lies, called her a bigamist, tried to tarnish her honor and mine. That I could not forgive. A man may call me names, he may question my politics, but he does not insult my wife and walk away breathing. He was a skilled marksman, one of the best duelists in Tennessee, and he knew it. He thought that gave him the right to say whatever he pleased, knowing men would fear to face him. But I do not fear any man. When he challenged me, I accepted. And when the time came, he fired first. His bullet tore through my chest, cracked my ribs, and lodged near my heart. But I stood. I did not fall. And I took my shot. My bullet struck him dead, and I never regretted it. He gambled with his life when he opened his mouth. And he lost.
Did I seek violence? No, but I did not shrink from it when duty demanded it. A man must be willing to bear the weight of his choices, to accept the consequences of defending his name, his family, and his country. That is not cruelty, that is the price of living with dignity. And so I tell you this, never let another man define your worth. Stand tall, speak plainly, and when the time comes, do not hesitate to defend what is yours. That is the mark of a man, and that is how I have lived my life. I did not duel for sport. I did not duel for pleasure. I dueled because a man who does not defend himself is no man at all. If I had let Dickinson's word stand, it would have told the world that a man could spit on my name, spit on my wife, and I would do nothing. And that I could never allow.
I became a general, not because I wanted it, but because the country needed me. I was a young lawyer, just starting out in Tennessee. But when the War of 1812 broke out, it didn't matter what my title was, it mattered that we had to defend this country from the British, and I wasn't about to let anyone else do the fighting for me. I had no formal military training, but that never stopped me. I grew up fighting, whether it was the British in the Revolution, or defending my home against raiders.
By the time the war with Britain came, I was already leading men, organizing militias, and standing tall in the face of danger. I was 33 years old when I was made a major general in the Tennessee militia, and the title didn't change who I was. It just gave me more responsibility. The British wanted to crush us, to break our spirit. They thought they could march through our land and push us into submission—they didn't know what they were up against, a country of men who fought for their homes, for their freedom. When I became general, I didn't just command soldiers. I commanded men who were ready to give their lives to defend what they'd built. I was just a man who believed in fighting for what's right, no matter the odds, no matter the cost. And that's how I became a general, not through rank or titles, but through sheer will and a refusal to back down.
The British were after New Orleans for one reason above all—control of the Mississippi River. That river was the lifeblood of America's trade and growth. New Orleans was the gateway to the West, and whoever held it held the power to control the flow of goods, a key to controlling the future of the nation. If the British had taken New Orleans, they would have been able to strangle the flow of American goods down the river, cutting off trade, cutting off supplies, and cutting off the very lifeblood of the nation. They could have turned the heart of America into a vassal to the British Empire, and the rest of the country would have suffered. It wasn't just about New Orleans. It was about the survival of the Republic itself. But it wasn't just about strategy. New Orleans was a symbol. If the British could invade, sack, and take our port, it would send a message to the world—that America was weak, that we couldn't defend our own land. And that wasn't a message I was going to let stand. Not under my watch.
Sam Houston was a man I took under my wing. I saw in him the same fire, the same grit that I had in my own heart. He was a young man full of potential, a soldier in the making, and I respected that. He had a wild spirit, but he was loyal, and that meant something to me. I brought him into my circle, gave him responsibilities, and in the early days we fought side by side. He was brave, honorable, and a damn good soldier. But sometimes a man's loyalty doesn't follow the same path as his ambition. Over time, Sam started to make his own decisions—sometimes good, sometimes bad—but always with his own agenda. And when he decided to take Texas into his own hands and go against what I thought was right, that's when things began to shift between us. We had our differences, and though I respected his courage and what he did for Texas, I could never forgive the way he broke away. I felt like he abandoned the cause we fought for. He had the potential to be a great leader, but he chose a different path. And it wasn't one I agreed with. But in the end, I'll say this, I never hated him. We may have disagreed, but I always respected what he did for this country and the role he played in securing the future of Texas. He was his own man, and that's something I couldn't take away from him, even if we went our separate ways. I'd fought for this country. I'd fought for the common soldier, the farmer, the man who worked with his hands, and I was sick of seeing them trampled underfoot.
When I saw how the Bank of the United States and the politicians were exploiting the people, it made me realize that someone had to stand up for the nation's future, someone who wasn't in the pockets of the rich. I believed that I was the man to lead them, because I'd always fought for what was right, no matter the odds. I didn't seek the presidency because I had a burning desire for power. I sought it because I saw a nation that was being ruled by the wealthy few. A nation where the common man had no voice, no representation. The system was corrupt, and the people were suffering while the elites in Washington made decisions that benefited themselves, not the nation. It wasn't about ambition. It was about justice. It was about ensuring that the people, the working men and women, had a president who would fight for them, and not let their needs be forgotten while the rich and powerful ruled as they pleased. The nation needed someone who would be tough, who wouldn't be afraid to stand up to the elites and fight for the American people. So I... I ran.
I ran because I knew that if I didn't, this country would be taken away from the very people who built it. And that's why I became president, to serve the people, not the rich, not the elites. And if they didn't like it, well, they could deal with me, because I wasn't going to back down. I do not believe in deferring to Congress at every turn, nor do I believe that the courts alone should decide the course of our republic. The President is the steward of the people's will, and when necessary, he must act boldly, even if others call it tyranny.
The greatest threat to the Republic was never an army marching on our shores. It was the Bank of the United States, a den of vipers and thieves, that sought to control the lifeblood of this country. That bank was no friend of the people. It was run by corrupt financiers, men who sat in their counting houses, hoarding wealth, pulling the strings of the economy, and choking small farmers and honest laborers with debt. They wielded more power than Congress itself, and they answered to no one but their own greed. I vowed to crush them. The bank had its grip on everything. It controlled credit, influenced elections, and funneled money to the wealthy elite while the common man struggled. And at the head of it all was Nicholas Biddle, a man who thought himself a king, believing he could manipulate the economy, bribe politicians, and use the people's own money to fight against me.
Well, I don't take kindly to being controlled, and I sure as hell don't take kindly to tyranny, whether it wears a crown or a banker's coat. So I killed the bank, not with speeches, not with empty threats, but with action. When Biddle and his cronies pushed to renew the bank's charter in 1832, four years before it was set to expire, I vetoed it on the spot. I stood before the American people and told them the truth. The bank was a tool for the rich, a machine of corruption, and it had no place in a free republic. Let the merchants and moneymen whine about stability. I was fighting for the people, not the powerful. But Biddle wasn't finished. He thought he could wait me out, that I'd leave office and the bank would rise again. So I did what no president before me dared to do. I ordered the federal government's money, pulled out of the bank, and placed in state banks, the pet banks run by men loyal to the cause of democracy. Without the people's money, the bank collapsed like a house of cards. Biddle fought back, deliberately tightening credit, causing a panic to punish the country for siding with me. But I held firm. I told the people to stand strong, that Biddle's tricks were nothing more than the death throes of a dying beast. And I was right. The bank never recovered. It breathed its last in 1836, and by 1837, it was gone.
For a time, I won. Not only did I kill the bank, but I paid off the national debt. The first and only time in history that America has owed not a single cent. I freed this nation from financial bondage, and I would do it again if I had the chance— But men with power never give it up for long. I smashed the bank, but I couldn't kill greed itself. After I left office, the money men regrouped. The government slipped back into debt. The banks, unshackled and unregulated, ran wild, leading to the panic of 1837. Some say that was my fault, that by destroying the bank, I let chaos take its place. But I say this. It was the greed of bankers, not my war against them, that led to ruin. I also expanded democracy, giving power back to the working men of America.
Before I took office, Washington was ruled by elites, bankers, lawyers, and men who thought they were better than the people who built this country. I changed that. I expanded voting rights, ensuring that government was no longer just for the privileged few, but for every free man willing to stand and fight for his future. The farmers, frontiersmen, and laborers—these were the backbone of the nation, and I made sure their voices were heard. When South Carolina threatened to break the Union apart, I made my position clear—this republic will not be destroyed.
The nullification crisis was nothing more than treason wrapped in political language. South Carolina, led by John C. Calhoun, claimed they had the right to ignore federal laws, specifically the Tariff of 1828, which they called the Tariff of Abominations. They argued that if a state didn't like a law, they could simply declare it null and void within their borders, as if the Constitution were just a suggestion. I had no patience for it. If one state could defy the Union, what was to stop the next from doing the same? That was the road to anarchy and disunion. I told them plain, I would march a federal army into South Carolina myself and hang every traitor from the first tree I found if they dared to defy the laws of the United States. The Union is sacred, forged in the blood of patriots, and I would see it defended at any cost. South Carolina backed down, and the country remained whole. Let no man forget that.
Beyond our borders, foreign nations learned to respect the United States under my watch. When France refused to pay what it owed us, Washington politicians wanted to beg and negotiate endlessly. I had a different idea. I made it clear. Pay up, or we take it by force. No nation robs the United States and walks away untouched. The French paid, and not a single shot had to be fired. Respect is earned, not given, and under my presidency, America commanded respect.
Finally, I take pride in the expansion of our great nation. This land was meant to be settled, built, and tamed, and under my leadership, millions of acres were opened for American families to claim as their own. The frontier was not a place for cowards or weak men. It was the future of the republic. America was never meant to be boxed in, held back, or confined to the coasts.
The settlers were coming, the states were growing, and the nation demanded room to thrive. I made sure the people had the land, the opportunity, and the protection to seize that future. But expansion comes with hard choices. I have never denied the bravery of the Choctaw, the Creek, and the Cherokee who stood with us at New Orleans.
They fought well, and they bled for this country, and I honor that. But war is one thing. Governing a nation is another. What I did with Indian removal was not about loyalty or betrayal. It was about the survival of the American people and, in truth, the survival of the Indian tribes themselves. I did not hate the Indian. But I knew the future of this country demanded their lands. The settlers were coming. The states would not stop expanding. Conflict was inevitable. So I gave them a choice, move west, keep your way of life, and live in peace, or stay and be swallowed by war and white settlement. It was not cruelty, it was reality.
I promised them land beyond the Mississippi, land where they could govern themselves, free from interference. Some went willingly, some fought. But I tell you this, If they had stayed, the bloodshed would have been far worse. The Indian nations that fought with me at New Orleans were strong, proud warriors.
They should understand better than anyone that sometimes a hard choice must be made for the good of all. Guilt? No. I did what had to be done. A leader makes the choices no one else is willing to make. The Indian Removal Act was not about revenge, not about punishment. It was about the future, and I will not apologize for ensuring that future. The expansion of America was inevitable. I did not create that fact. I only ensured that it happened in a way that secured the nation's growth while avoiding endless conflict. And no one can deny that under my watch, the nation grew stronger, richer, and more powerful than ever before. I didn't seek the presidency for glory. I sought it to fight, to fight for the common man, to break the grip of corruption, and to ensure that this country belonged to those who built it, not those who sought to rule it. I leave behind a nation stronger, freer, and more powerful than when I took office. And if my enemies don't like it, well, they had their chance to stop me. And they failed. The world is built on strength, labor, and order. Every man has his place in it.
The Negro has been a part of this country since its birth. And while some may wish it otherwise, the system of slavery is woven into the foundation of our economy and way of life. In Louisiana, in South Carolina, in many places, there were free black men who owned slaves of their own. Some were wealthy, some were small landowners, some simply bought their own kin to keep them from harsher masters. Slavery is not just about race. It is about order, property, and station in life. A free black man who has wealth and land has the same need for labor as any white man. And if he can own slaves, he does so for the same reason—to work the fields, to turn a profit, to secure his place in society. That is the nature of things.
The Northern elites love to wag their fingers at the South, preaching about slavery while they build their fortunes on the backs of men who have no better choice than to be worked to death in a mill. They claim to be better than us, But tell me, how is a starving child in a factory any freer than a slave in the field? They call it wages, but what kind of wages? A few miserable cents a day to work from dawn till dark in filthy, airless factories, where men, women, and even children break their backs for some fat-bellied northern industrialist who lives off their sweat? At least a plantation hand is fed, clothed, and given shelter. What does a factory worker get? Pennies, sickness, and the door when he's too broken to work.
I have no love for the industrialists, no trust in their banks, and no patience for their hypocrisy. They crush the working man beneath them. They rig the system in their favor, and then they dare to call us the oppressors. If they care so much for liberty, let them start by freeing their own laborers from the chains of poverty and greed.
Freedom to me is not a gift given by the weak or the cowardly. It is earned through struggle, sacrifice, and a willingness to stand firm in the face of deception and hardship. I have seen men rise and fall, some blinded by their own ambition, others swallowed by their lies. But no matter the deceit thrown my way, I have always trusted in the providence of God to guide me. God does not spare us from suffering. He sets us on a path, and it is up to each of us to walk it with courage, to fight for what's right, and to defend the freedom we have earned, no matter how many try to strip it away.
I've been deceived, betrayed, and lied to by many. But I know this, a man who fights for his honor, his country, and his God will never be truly defeated. So long as I have breath, I will stand, and I will fight for freedom, for truth, and for the future.
I've lost loved ones. I've seen men die at my side, but I still hold to this. God has his purpose, and if I'm still here, it's for a reason. I've walked through hell and come out on the other side, and I'll continue to do so until my time comes. My days? I wake with the sun, same as always. A man who spent his life fighting doesn't take kindly to idleness. I walk the grounds of the hermitage, oversee my affairs, and make sure my men are keeping the place running. I may be retired, but I haven't gone soft. I still run this land with the same discipline I ran my army.
Politics never leaves a man, and I don't let it. I still write letters, still keep watch over Washington. I have no use for the damned Whigs and their schemes, but Van Buren still listens when I speak, and that's good enough. The fight against the banks. The fight for the common man. That war ain't over, and I don't plan to go silent while the politicians play their games.
Most evenings I sit on the porch, pipe in hand, and let my mind wander back to New Orleans, to Horseshoe Bend, to the duels, the battles, the men who stood beside me, and those who fell. I think of Rachel too, though that's a pain I don't care to dwell on for long.
The world moves on, but some wounds don't heal. I have lived, I have fought, and now I shall rest. But let this be known. A life is not measured by how long it lasts, but by how deeply it impacts the world around it. We are all given a time to make our mark. Some men leave riches, others leave fame, but the greatest legacy is how you have served others, how you have stood firm in the face of adversity, and how you have kept your word, no matter the cost. Do not wait for the world to give you meaning. Make it yourself. The fight for what is right is never easy, but it is always worth the struggle. And when your time comes, you'll know—You lived, you fought, and you left the world better than you found it.
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(Transcript by Substack, with additional editing/ layout by me)
An audio of this was posted by Bob Dylan on 4th March, 2025.
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Unrelated to this — Here is a painting by Bob Dylan. Photograph by me. Seen at the Halcyon Gallery, London a couple of days ago. I hadn’t seen this one previously — They told me it was new into the gallery in the last week or so.
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My reading of Doesn’t Hurt Anymore — John Trudell. From Bob Dylan’s The Philosophy of Modern Song:
Best wishes,
nightly moth
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