Europeans often tease Americans that they live in a young country that’s barely 250 years old. But after spending two weeks traveling across the American East Coast as part of the U.S. Department of State’s International Visitor Leadership Program, I came away more convinced than ever that these clichés miss something essential. The United States is not a country without memory. Quite the opposite.

In America, storytelling is not reserved for intellectuals or academic elites. It is a civic practice woven into public life—the task of the people, done by the people, for the people. You are expected to know how to explain who you are, where you come from, and what you stand for. American institutions operate the same way.

Alongside fellow Hungarian colleagues, I visited sites dedicated to preserving the past, such as the Library of Congress, the National Archives and Records Administration, the U.S. Department of State, and the U.S. Department of the Interior. What struck me most was not simply the scale of these efforts, but the coherence behind them. Each featured an exhibit, collection, or carefully curated display explaining not only what the institution does, but why it exists. Perhaps that is the real difference between America and Europe.

In Europe, history is often treated as inheritance—something assumed, a given. In the United States, however, history must constantly be articulated, packaged, and retold. Identity is not passive; it is an active civic project.

Of course, this instinct can sometimes become excessive. Contemporary America is full of competing identity narratives, many of them divisive. And there certainly have been efforts to erase parts of American history that are deemed awkward, inconvenient, or too complex for the modern mind. But what deserves attention is the seriousness with which Americans preserve and communicate their national story—and they do it exceptionally well.

American museums are remarkably practical and accessible. They are designed not to overwhelm visitors, but to guide them. The exhibitions are clear, organized, and visually compelling. One leaves with the sense that the curators understand something very important: history that cannot be understood by ordinary people will eventually cease to matter. Simple, yet brilliant.

Another important difference is that many American museums, memorials, and historical collections rely heavily on private philanthropy, donations, civic support, and sales. Museum shops certainly exist in Europe as well, but the remarkable breadth and creativity of offerings in American museum stores reflect more than commercial abundance: they serve as hubs of cultural exchange, translating history, heritage, and collective memory into objects that can become part of everyday life.

Historical preservation is not viewed solely as the responsibility of the government, but as a shared cultural duty. Millions of Americans contribute financially each year to preserve and sustain the nation’s most important historic sites—a remarkable expression of civic pride and cultural stewardship.

Perhaps this is why so many Americans maintain a surprisingly vivid relationship with their national past. They encounter it constantly: in museums, monuments, archives, reenactments, public ceremonies, exhibitions, school trips, and civic rituals. History is not hidden away in academic institutions. It is integrated into everyday life. For all their supposed historical shallowness, Americans understand something profoundly important—and especially meaningful in the nation’s 250th year: a nation flourishes only when it continues to tell its story, renew its memory, and pass its ideals confidently from one generation to the next.

As a historian, I was naturally drawn to the vast collection of the Library of Congress, where countless books and manuscripts on Hungarian subjects conceal stories still waiting to be discovered. The library of the Daughters of the American Revolution appeals to me for a different reason: its rich trove of family histories preserves the individual threads that, woven together, form the fabric of American society across generations. And then there is the National Archives and Records Administration, whose holdings often contain the missing pieces of historical puzzles that connect America to my own Central European past.

As an overseas visitor from a landlocked country, I found the historical sites of the American East Coast, connected to rivers and the sea, the most captivating. The open-air exhibits at Jamestown Settlement include a pier along the James River and replicas of 17th-century ships. During my visit, only the Godspeed and the Discovery were on display, accompanied by a smaller fishing vessel—yet the exhibit offered something extraordinary. Standing aboard the ships, one cannot help but reflect on the hardships, determination, faith, and endurance of those who crossed the Atlantic in such remarkably small vessels. They ventured across the “sullen seas” toward the “dark forests,” as Jack London so evocatively described the New World. When we consider the magnitude of that journey, it is difficult not to feel a profound sense of humility and admiration for America’s early settlers.

The USS Yorktown in Charleston and the USS Olympia in Philadelphia offer far more than attractions for enthusiasts of steel warships and military technology. They provide visitors with a deeper understanding of the forces that shaped American history and power. The Yorktown, in particular, helps make tangible the often-used but rarely understood concept of “power projection.” Walking its decks, one begins to grasp how the United States developed the ability to influence events far beyond its shores through naval and air power.

The USS Olympia offers a very different experience. The elegance of pre-1914 naval warfare is striking, and the ship’s beauty—both inside and out—is truly breathtaking. Throughout the vessel, visitors encounter numerous interpretive panels that explain not only the functions of individual compartments but also the broader historical context in which the ship operated. One of these panels contains a particularly thought-provoking reflection:

Imagining scenarios from the past can help us imagine new futures. Though we cannot change the past, dreaming of what the future could have been allows us to see opportunities for change and growth. As you continue your journey on board, think about the other layers of history to be explored.

That message captures something essential about the purpose of historical memory. Museums and historic sites are not merely places where artifacts are preserved; they are spaces where the past can inspire new ways of understanding the present and imagining the future.

For Hungarians—and indeed for many Central Europeans—these are not merely intellectual exercises. They are deeply personal questions. We know all too well what it means to look back on history and wonder what might have been.

My hope is that our grandchildren will not have to regard our own era as a lost opportunity, a future that could have been. That is why preserving our sovereignty matters. Without the freedom to shape our own destiny, future generations are left only with speculation about roads not taken.

In this regard, the United States has much to teach us. Through its civic attitude and historical experience in cultivating a shared narrative of the past, American institutions have devoted enormous effort to preserving memory, interpreting history, and connecting citizens to a common story. Such a sovereign understanding of the past helps strengthen social bonds in the present and gives a nation greater confidence in charting its future. The work of historical memory is therefore not an exercise in nostalgia. It is an investment in sovereignty itself.